


The Silver Hand

by DarkxPrince



Series: Amidst the Shadows [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Vampire Lord, Werewolf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7496787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkxPrince/pseuds/DarkxPrince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skjor hasn't returned since his most recent scouting mission, and Aela asks Charlya to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Silver Hand

“I hope you know this is _your_ fault, _leech_.”

“ _My_ fault? I’m not the one who walked us into an ambush, _dog_.”

Charlya stood with her back to a red-headed female Nord, Aela the Huntress of the Companions, surrounded by enemies. Charlya repressed a sigh; this is what she got for being generous. Several months ago she had decided to join the group known as The Companions, more out of boredom and a need for gold than any sense of honor. Still, it had been an entertaining experience all the same despite the _smell_ that assaulted her. Charlya had no doubt that had she not had a supernatural sense of smell, she never would have noticed. She had, for the most part, been able to hide her vampirism from the younger recruits and only the most senior members were able to tell. Though like her, they had been able to smell it on her the moment she had walked into their hall. Oddly enough she had made plenty of friends – though she used the term loosely – with many members of the Companions. Even if the most senior members didn’t fully trust her … she had proven her worth several dozen times over.

She had proven herself enough that the inner circle had decided to share their “gift” with her. Not that she would ever lower herself and become a werewolf, but the sentiment had been … sweet? She had adapted to the life of a vampire and wasn’t sure if she could ever return to normal, or as normal as being a werewolf could be. Besides, she was immortal; short of having her head chopped off, she couldn’t die. So why would she want to be turned into a mortal werewolf? Surprisingly, they took her refusal of their “gift” rather well, though she could have sworn that Aela had been disappointed with her decision. When asked why she was declining their offer, the Dunmer merely transformed into her Vampire Lord form. It was a risk to take, as the transformed Aela could easily have attacked her … but in the end it had paid off. She had gone on to explain that she wasn’t ashamed of who and what she was, that was something both Skjor and Aela could understand and respect. Afterwards it became an unspoken rule; she didn’t talk about them being werewolves and they didn’t talk about her being a vampire.

Several days later Aela approached the Dunmer vampire with a new mission. Apparently, Skjor had gone off by himself to scout a fort of werewolf hunters called the Silver Hand and hadn’t returned. Feeling generous, Charlya agreed to accompany Aela to the fort, figuring that between a werewolf and a vampire it would be simple. She should have known nothing was ever simple. This brought them to their current predicament; immediately entering the fort the two women were surrounded by the Silver Hand. The Dunmer woman chuckled slightly; it was almost a fair fight … for them, anyway. “I bet I can kill more than you,” Aela said.

Charlya chuckled in response, “Looser buys at the Bannered Mare?”

A werewolf’s howl was the only response that she got, and Charlya took that as a sign to transform into her Vampire Lord form. Leaping into the ranks of the Silver Hand, Charlya speared her claws through the chest of one and decapitated another. Grabbing the wrist of another she pulled the unfortunate soul toward her, burying her razor sharp fangs into the person’s neck. It took seconds to drain the body of blood and Charlya threw the lifeless husk into another enemy. She was on them in seconds, cleaving limbs with her claws and tearing chunks of flesh out with her fangs, draining them of blood whenever she felt like it. Charlya chuckled, this was almost too easy. She had expected more from a group who specialized in hunting werewolves. True, she was so much more powerful than a mere werewolf and she doubted the Silver Hand had any experience with dealing with a vampire such as herself – or any vampire really. Apparently what the Silver Hand lacked in experience they made up for in numbers … Charlya had actually lost count of the number of her kills.

Charlya frowned as she and Aela continued deeper into the fort, the bodies of dead werewolves strung up in cages like common animals with many showing signs of torture. Aela growled deep in her throat, hackles raised and claws flexing, clearly angered by the treatment of her fellow werewolves, and Charlya wasn’t much better herself. The Vampire Lord clenched her own claws, barely containing her own anger as she saw other werewolves in human form dangling from chains, wounds from torture clearly visible. While it was true that many werewolves couldn’t control themselves when they transformed, they were still alive and certainly didn’t deserve to be hunted down and killed. Besides, was a normal wolf hated and hunted down for its nature? Of course, normal wolves didn’t hunt and kill people … but that was beside the point. The point was, when they weren’t in their beast form, werewolves were just like any other person. While she herself had – on occasion – butchered her enemies and drained them of blood, even she wouldn’t torture her enemies. It wasn’t the first time that she wondered who the real monsters were: vampires, werewolves or humans?

Charlya summoned her magic, waving her hand and blasting the door apart with a burst of telekinetic power. Aela charged in first, the werewolf howling in rage, ripping apart any who got too close. Charlya dashed into the middle of a group, racking her claws across the chest of a Silver Hand. Her wings snapped out, the clawed tips lodging within the throats of two others, even as she snapped the neck of another. The Dunmer vampire turned to face who she assumed was the leader, if the full set of steel armor and the gleaming silver greatsword were anything to go by. With a yell, the Silver Hand leader charged, swinging the greatsword in a wide arc. Charlya backed away, twisting and turning to dodge the attacks, occasionally using her claws to deflect sword strikes. Charlya didn’t even bother to avoid the next strike, briefly morphing into a swarm of bats, the silver greatsword passing harmlessly through the cluster of bats. The Vampire Lord hissed as her body reformed, clamping a hand around the leader’s wrist and twisted, the silver greatsword clattering to the ground.

 The Silver Hand leader screamed as Charlya sank her fangs into his neck, taking her time to drain him of his blood. Normally she would be as fast as possible, but she wasn’t in a generous mood right now. She wanted the Silver Hand leader to suffer, to pay for his treatment of werewolves, make him feel what all the werewolves felt as they were being tortured. The Dunmer vampire extracted her fangs, in a rare show of malicious behavior she had taken enough blood to ensure the Silver Hand leader would die but not enough to make it a fast death. Charlya threw the dying leader into the wall, nearly grinning as she heard a satisfying crunch of bones breaking, and turned to face Aela.

The werewolf was crouched over the lifeless body of Skjor, a keening howl reverberating around the room. As Charlya approached, however, that mournful howl turned into one of pure rage. Normally the Dunmer Vampire wouldn’t care so much and just let Aela rampage through a horde of enemies until the Nord werewolf was spent. That wasn’t an option this time, seeing as they had already killed all of the Silver Hand members who had resided in the fort. Which left the seemingly impossible task of calming a raging werewolf down. Great, just great, how in Azura’s name was she going to do that? The backhand caught her off guard, sending Charlya flying into a wall. The Dunmer vampire hissed, crouching low as the Nordic werewolf turned to face her. With no other outlet for her rage, Aela turned on the only person she could … Charlya. “Aela, calm down!” she yelled, leaping over the charging werewolf.

Howling in rage Aela charged again, Charlya leaping to the side to avoid the werewolf. Aela was on her in seconds, forcing Charlya to grab the werewolf’s arms and digging her clawed feet into the floor. “You’re better than this! Don’t let the beast control you!” Aela merely snarled in response, snapping her maw trying to tear Charlya’s throat out. The Dunmer vampire didn’t want to hurt Aela, even if it appeared that was the only thing to do. Still, there might be one thing that she could attempt. She had never tried it on a werewolf – there had never been a reason to – and there was certainly no guarantee it would actually work. However, it just might calm the raging werewolf down enough for Aela to regain control of herself. Inhaling Charlya summoned her Thu’um, “ _Kaan_ … _Drem Ov_!”

The blue wave of pure energy blasted into Aela, yet unlike many of her Dragon Shouts, it did no physical damage to the werewolf. In fact, the only indication that the Thu’um did anything was that Aela was no longer trying to tear into her throat. Well, it wasn’t like Charlya had expected it to work properly, though this was a good sign. The Dunmer vampire inhaled again, “ _Kaan_ … _Drem Ov_!” This time there was a more visible effect as the wave of energy washed over the werewolf, Aela’s body relaxed, though the werewolf remained ready to fight. Charlya relaxed her own grip, ready to react if needed even as she breathed in deeply, “ _Kaan_ … _Drem Ov_!” This time the Thu’um had its intended effect and the Nordic werewolf was fully calmed, whining almost pitifully. Charlya released Aela, the werewolf returning to crouch over Skjor’s body, nudging it with her snout. Charlya shifted back to her mortal form, slowly approaching the mourning werewolf so as not to set her off again. The Dunmer woman lowered her hood and face mask as she knelt, gently placing a hand on the werewolf’s shoulder.

Aela howled even as she shifted back to human form, her agonized scream sending a chill down Charlya’s spine. “Those bastards!” Aela shouted, hands clenching into fists, “We’ll kill every last one of them!”

Charlya wrapped her arm around the Nord woman, drawing Aela to her feet, “Yes, we will, but for now you need to calm down or risk turning again.” One experience with an enraged werewolf was one too many in Charlya’s opinion. “Rushing blindly in will only end in your death as well.” This was one of many reasons why Charlya disliked werewolves; they were always leading with their emotions, always quick to anger and never thinking things through. “For now, let’s return to Whiterun … maybe get a drink at the Bannered Mare.” Charlya chuckled lightly, trying to lighten the mood, “I do believe you lost our bet.”

Aela merely snorted, “I lost? I killed more than you so _you_ _’_ _re_ buying.” The Nord’s voice lowered to a whisper as she continued, “We can’t leave Skjor’s body here.”

Charlya frowned; friendly bantering aside she had always gotten along with Skjor. Like Aela, he wasn’t ashamed of his beast blood like some of the other senior members of the Companions. For that alone, he had her respect, and he certainly deserved better than to rot here. Which left the question: what to do? If they were closer to Whiterun, then they could certainly take his body with them and give Skjor a proper burial. Unfortunately, they were nowhere near Whiterun, and a corpse would only slow them down. That left only one option, they had to burn his body here. Calling upon her magic, she levitated Skjor’s body, left the fort and walked out into the woods.

It didn’t take long for Charlya and Aela to create a funeral pyre in a small clearing, setting Skjor’s body atop it. Stepping forward Charlya drew in a deep breath, summoning her Thu’um once again and drawing on all her power as Dovahkiin, “ _Yol_ … _Toor Shul_!” The dragon’s fire blasted out of her mouth, setting the funeral pyre aflame. She and Aela merely stood there, watching the flames blaze into the night sky even as wolves howled in the distance. By the time there was nothing left but ashes, the sun was starting to rise, and the two women started the long trek back to Whiterun.

Luckily the return trip was largely uneventful, though Charlya remained worried about Aela. The normally out-spoken and boisterous Huntress was silent and brooding. More than once Charlya wondered if the Nord Huntress would disappear while she rested and she was constantly checking Aela’s bedroll every time the Dunmer heard a wolf howl. Charlya could see the anger deep within the other woman’s eyes, twisting and churning and begging for release. It was a look that Charlya herself was intimately familiar with. She had that same look in her eyes when she had first been turned into a vampire. She had been so angry back then … angry at the vampire who turned her, angry at herself for being so weak, angry at the world for shunning her because of what she had been turned into. All of that anger seething within her had turned her into a hateful and spiteful woman. The only thing that had saved her was falling in love with – and later marrying – Jenassa and adopting the two little Nord girls, Sofie and Runa. Even then it had taken so long for all of that anger to slowly burn away, though she could still feel it from time to time. Certainly she didn’t want Aela to go down that path; she just wasn’t sure how to properly help the Nord werewolf.

Charlya sat across from Aela at the Bannered Mare, nursing a goblet of wine as the Nord downed several tankards of mead. Over the months she had been with the Companions the Dunmer woman was all too familiar with the type of drunk Aela was. The Huntress was normally a rambunctious drunk, often boasting about her latest kill or a recent battle. In fact, the two women had solidified their friendship when they had both gotten drunk and started a bar fight. They had been returning from their most recent mission, clearing a cave of predators, and had stopped at a small inn to rest. The night had started off innocently enough, with Aela challenging the Dunmer to a drinking contest. Halfway into the night they were well into their cups – just starting to get pleasantly drunk, their vampiric and werewolf blood always made it difficult to actually get drunk – when they had been interrupted by group of Nord men. They were a group of bandits or mercenaries, though they were clearly intoxicated, slurring all of their words as they spoke.

To this day Charlya couldn’t remember what they had said to piss off both herself and Aela, though it could have just as easily been the fact that the group of men had interrupted their drinking contest. The Dunmer Vampire did remember one of the men grabbing her, which had set her off, punching the man’s face and sending him flying back, knocking him out cold. Then the other drunken men surged forward, yelling and swinging. Aela had, at first, stayed out of what was happening, and then one of the men made the mistake of tumbling into the Nord woman and spilling her tankard of mead. Snarling the werewolf joined in, throwing the poor fool clear across the tavern. It was highly unfair as both she and Aela were only buzzed and not completely drunk while the men could barely stand on their feet. The fight – if it could be called that – barely lasted a minute and the Nord men were either out cold or moaning in pain. Several moments passed in silence, only broken by Aela’s hearty laughter and the Huntress clapped Charlya on her back, turning back to the barkeep and motioning for another drink.

Charlya smiled at the memory as she sipped her wine, it figured that a werewolf and vampire would bond over a fight. Afterwards the two women continued to throw insults at each other, though the barbs lost all harmful intent. Many times the two would get drunk together, sometimes claiming loudly they were the better at something than the other, trading stories or making lewd jokes. Unfortunately there was none of that this time. Aela merely sat hunched over her tankard, downing her drinks in silence. The Dunmer woman could see the constantly churning anger behind the Nord’s eyes, just waiting for the slightest excuse to release. Normally Charlya would consider starting a bar fight, that had always seemed to lift the Huntress’ spirits in the past. This time, however, Charlya wasn’t sure if Aela could properly control her anger and might seriously injure the poor fools. She was also unsure if Aela would finally give into her anger and run off to fight the Silver Hand alone. Which left Charlya with only one option, get the Nord werewolf drunk enough that she couldn’t do anything that would harm others … or herself for that matter.

Charlya was sipping her fifth … or was it her twentieth, she had lost track awhile ago … goblet of wine, only now beginning to feel a slight buzz. Aela had easily downed four or five times that amount, well on her way to being intoxicated. “Fucking Silver Hand,” Aela muttered, her hand clenched around her tankard and Charlya could see indents starting to form from the force. Ironically, a drunk werewolf was more dangerous than a sober one … at least when they were sober, werewolves had slightly better control over their strength, “We should have wiped them out long ago.”

Aela knocked back another drink, crushed the tankard and threw it into the fire, watching the sparks fly into the air. “Divines damn Skjor!” Aela yelled, slamming a fist on the table, “He … he should have taken a Shield-sibling with him!” The Nord woman grabbed a bottle of mead and downed it in one gulp, throwing the empty bottle against a wall, “D … damn him! Talos damn him!” Charlya silently pushed another tankard of mead toward Aela, the werewolf downing it without a sound. “We’ll make them pay,” Aela growled under her breath, “By the time we’re finished, there won’t be single Silver Hand left.” The Nord woman bolted to her feet, swaying slightly, “By Hircine I’ll go kill them all myself if I have to!”

Charlya drew on a miniscule amount of her Thu’um, muttering “ _Fus_!” under her breath. The tiny energy wave hit Aela, the Nord woman dropping into her chair with a heavy thump. The Dunmer vampire refilled the tankard of mead, as well as her own goblet of wine as Aela slouched forward. “He … he had been one of the strongest among us.” the Nord woman glanced up into the Dunmer’s eyes, barely restrained anger burning behind Aela’s silver eyes, “Promise me sister, we’ll slaughter them and make them tremble at the sight of us.”

Charlya merely raised her goblet and dipped her head, “We will, sister, I can promise you that.” She knocked back her drink, refilling the goblet and leaning back in her chair. She watched Aela consume several more drinks, trying to think of a way to get the Huntress’ mind off the Silver Hand. “You know,” Charlya said before her mind could catch up, “I do envy you werewolves.” Not that that was something she would ever admit when she was sober, but alcohol had a way lowering one’s defenses.

Aela grunted as she downed another tankard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “And … and why’s that … leech?”

Charlya swirled her goblet, staring into the red wine, “At least when you die, you have the Hunting Grounds to look forward to. An eternal hunt by Hircine’s side.” The Dunmer frowned as she drank the wine, slamming the goblet back onto the table, “What do I have to look forward to if I’m ever killed?” She grabbed the wine bottle and took a long drag from it, not even bothering to refill her goblet, “An eternity of servitude in Coldharbour is what awaits me. Nothing more than a slave to Molag Bal.” The Dunmer vampire drained the rest of the bottle, savoring the burn of wine down her throat.

“You’d think … think that the Dragonborn would get a better afterlife,” Aela slurred, reaching for another tankard of mead.

Charlya frowned as she refilled her own goblet, maybe all of the alcohol was getting to her, but why had she never really thought about that before? For the longest time she had just assumed she would be going to Coldharbour and being a slave to Molag Bal. Then she killed Alduin the World Eater, joined the Thieves Guild and Dark Brotherhood and the Companions, and encountered all of the Daedric Princes. It’s funny what the mind thinks up when it’s drunk, “Now that I really think about it, I have no idea what afterlife awaits me.” She took a long sip of wine before continuing, “I’ve helped all of the Daedric Princes, though only sworn service to one of them,” she rested a hand on her chest, lightly tracing over the crest of the Nightingales which adorned her armor, “The only reason Molag Bal has any claim on my soul is because of my vampirism.”

Aela took a long drag from her tankard, swaying slightly as she set it back onto the table, “If you’re worried about your afterlife, then cure yourself.”

The Dunmer vampire growled, her fangs glinting in the dim light of the fire, “If I didn’t accept your beast blood what makes you think I’d want to purge my vampiric blood?” Charlya took a long drag from her own goblet, “Besides, I’ve accepted whatever afterlife awaits me.” What she didn’t say was that there were three (four, if she was being optimistic) possible afterlives: eternal servitude in Coldharbour as a slave to Molag Bal; being part of the Evergloam and attending Lady Nocturnal; entering the Void and serving the Night Mother and Sithis; or maybe she would be lucky, be brought to Moonshadow and watched over by Lady Azura. “Anyway, Sovngarde and the eternal feast within Shor’s Hall never appealed to me.”

Aela threw her head back and laughed, nearly toppling from her chair, “Well said, sister, well said.” The Nord werewolf took another drag from her tankard, bracing one of her hands on the table to keep her steady, “Even when I was a little girl Sovngarde never appealed to me either. The unpredictable, the unexpected, the thrill of the hunt and battle, this is what makes life worth living.” The Huntress stared into her tankard as she continued, her voice lowered, “Only Skjor ever understood why the beast blood was a blessing and not a curse.”

“Well then,” Charlya said, raising her goblet, “Here’s to the thrill of life.”

Aela raised her tankard, slurring as she spoke, “And to all who have gone before us.”

The two women downed their drinks and slammed their cups onto the table, sitting in comfortable silence for several minutes. Charlya was just starting to relax, finally pleasantly drunk, when Aela spoke up, “We haven’t had a drinking contest in a while.”

Charlya threw her head back laughing, “You’re already drunk! I doubt you could handle much more.”

Out of the corner of her eye Charlya saw a group of Nords approach them, all of whom wore the armor of mercenaries and only a few appeared to be drunk. The Dunmer sighed heavily; there went any hope for an uneventful evening. One of the Nord men stepped forward, presumably the leader, “Your kind aren’t welcome here.” The Dunmer merely chuckled; clearly this group was new to Whiterun and didn’t know who they were talking to. “Leave before we teach you a lesson.”

Charlya gracefully rose to her feet, swaying only slightly, as Aela rose to her own feet, though less gracefully, to stand next to the Dunmer. The group stared at the two women for several heartbeats … then one of them made a grab at Charlya. She responded by punching the fool’s face in, which in turn set everyone else off. Even completely drunk and swaying on their feet, both she and Aela were more than a match for the mercenaries. Since they were drunk and all of their inhibitions were gone, they didn’t hold any of their strength back. Charlya was silently pleased to see the Huntress back to her usual self, a smile gracing the Nord woman’s face and laughing as she brawled. Charlya let loose her own laugh as she punched another man’s face in, her fangs flashing in the fire’s light as a grin split her face.

Several minutes later Charlya and Aela were stumbling out of the Bannered Mare, leaning heavily against each other. Occasionally drinking out of the bottles clutched in their hands, they drunkenly sang “Ragnar the Red” as they returned to Breezehome.


End file.
